


My Skin

by Helasdottir



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helasdottir/pseuds/Helasdottir
Summary: Blackouts are one of the most clichéd symptoms of alcoholism. Hank used to think they were exaggerated in the media – he never forgot what he did while drunk in college, and he used to drink a lot. His friends even congratulated him on his high alcohol tolerance, which seems like a pretty shitty thing for him to brag about in retrospect.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Gavin Reed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: there is quite a lot of internalized ableism and self-hatred on Hank's part, so proceed with caution.

Blackouts are one of the most clichéd symptoms of alcoholism. Hank used to think they were exaggerated in the media – he never forgot what he did while drunk in college, and he used to drink _a lot_. His friends even congratulated him on his high alcohol tolerance, which seems like a pretty shitty thing for him to brag about in retrospect.

Hank’s no longer a young adult, though. He didn’t think things would change that much in a couple of decades, so the first time he woke up with no memory of the previous night and thirty missed calls from Jeffrey, the panic coupled with his hangover to make him feel like death itself. A few hours of throwing up into every sink in his house damn near had him consider going sober.

It’d be easy to lie and say he got over the fear of the blackouts as they became more and more common, but Hank believes that self-hatred means being able to look your own bullshit in the face. He can admit that the anxiety got worse, not better, because he began to notice just how bad his memory was and just how often he found gaps in it.

That’s why he started leaving notepads all over the house, writing notes to himself like a crazy person. He remembers writing some but not all of them. He has no idea when sticky notes began to show up on his bathroom mirror, but he figures that was a brilliant idea Drunk Hank had one night. He rolls with it, because at least it’s somewhere where notes are hard to miss.

He expected the notes to help, to get his head in order and trigger his memory, or at least keep track of things. He didn’t expect them to make things stranger. It’s a few weeks into covering his bathroom in sticky notes when he sees a letter pinned to the fridge, and acid bubbles in his throat as he reads through it.

It doesn’t read like anything he would write. Oh, there’s plenty of hateful and harmful language, full paragraphs devoted to insulting and berating him, but it’s just _off_. The line that truly freaks him out is near the end, after the letter details how he’s driving his career into the ground and fucking up every friendship he ever had _: if you’re gonna kill yourself, at least swallow a bullet before instead of making us starve on the streets_.

He doesn’t know who ‘us’ is referring to, and he doesn’t get to dwell on it. His head feels heavy and loud at the same time, like every sound is infinitely amplified to hurt him, and it only gets worse when he sees the empty bottles sitting on the sink. His head swims with a sudden panic, because he’s not hungover enough to have had _that much_ alcohol in one night.

It’s panic that drives Hank to the liquor cabinet, which he finds empty. His fridge holds no more beers, but there’s a bag of empty cans beside the trash. The kitchen sink smells like alcohol.

Rage and desperation make him scream, cursing himself, cursing Jennifer for having called him crazy when he first worried about not remembering what he was doing, cursing the world for fucking him up beyond repair. He grabs the empty bottles off the sink and flings them across the kitchen, shattering them on the wall, covering the floor in broken glass.

There’s a compulsion to go out now, run outside in desperation and drive to the nearest liquor store, stock up on everything that was apparently dumped out. He doesn’t have the strength to do it, though, and the little voice of his conscience tells him he’s disgusting for even considering it. This is his chance, his only chance to stop fucking himself over and maybe try to move on.

Sinking to the floor with a sound that might be either a laugh or a sob, Hank slams his fist down against the kitchen tiles. He’s not sure if he had a moment of realization during the night and decided to go cold turkey, but he hates himself for it nonetheless. It’s just one more reason for the list.

He must have made a real mess of things, because Jeffrey doesn’t call looking for him this time. Instead, Hank hears someone knocking loudly on his front door and realizes he must have zoned out, gone into some kind of thought spiral which showed him becoming another crazy old man begging for scraps on the streets.

“Hank, if you don’t open this goddamn door-!”

So that’s why he didn’t call. Hank groans, feeling stranger than he has in some time, like suddenly his anger and hatred turned to numbness. It’s an effort to stand up, but at least he has sandals on so he can get across the kitchen without turning his feet into a bloody mess.

Jeffrey is still pounding on the door when he gets to it, and he might as well be hitting Hank on the head. The sound is loud and cutting enough to stab directly at his brain, as impossible as that is. Hank opens the door already cursing his friend, waving a hand in front of his face to make him shut up.

“Jesus Christ, Jeff, I’m fuckin’ here. Can you make a little less noise before you make the neighbors think I’m dead?”

“Just as soon as you stop making _me_ think you’re dead.” With all the grace of a pissed-off rhinoceros, Jeffrey pushes past Hank and steps inside uninvited. It’s not as if Hank were going to leave him outside for much longer, anyway, and he can’t complain when he knows he’s fucked up one more time. “You don’t show up at work in two days, you don’t even bother pretending you’re sick, and you have the fucking nerve to act like nothing happened. I thought you’d done something real stupid this time, Hank.”

Two days. Hank doesn’t contain the confusion and surprise that rise to his face, and he pushes the door closed as his face morphs into a frown. He doesn’t remember missing work yesterday, but for Jeffrey to be this angry and worried – _fuck_. 

He’s not sure if he starts shaking now or if he was already trembling from the incident in the kitchen, but it’s clearly noticeable. Hank thinks he might pass out, or vomit, or even do both at the same time. He stumbles and Jeffrey moves to catch him, not expecting this reaction but clearly prepared in case he falls. Hank waves him off and makes his way to the couch, dropping onto the cushions with a pained _oof_.

Two days. He never lost two days before. No, he never noticed himself losing two days before, but that explains all the alcohol being gone. Or it doesn’t, and he’s not hungover, he’s in withdrawal. He’s certainly sweating enough for it.

Jeffrey is there beside him, fussing over him like a mother hen. Hank must look close to death, because his friend’s anger is almost entirely gone and replaced by pure, genuine concern. There’s a little voice in his head telling him to run, to hide from reality and drink until this problem also disappears, but he can’t do that to Jeffrey.

He can’t do that to himself. Or maybe he can, and he won’t.

It’s too much at once, either way, and Hank closes his eyes as he leans his head back against the pillow. Jeffrey is asking if he’s alright, still peppering in curse words, and demanding an explanation amid threads of taking him to the hospital.

Hank shouldn’t tell him. He’s going to sound crazy, he’s going to lose his job, and his friend is going to realize just how bad things are. That might be why Hank tells him everything without looking at him once, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling while he explains the blackouts and the drinking and the flashbacks, the inescapable urge to kill himself, the notes and the memories that don’t add up.

It’s a shit idea, and he’s not surprised when Jeffrey says he needs to hand in his badge. Hell, he’s not surprised when he says Hank can’t work again without a psychological evaluation, but it still fucking hurts.

He doesn’t say it with malice, though. The worst part is that Jeffrey is still there once Hank finishes his story, being a supportive friend, telling him to get his shit together so he doesn’t sink lower into this gaping pit of depression he’s gotten himself into. He’s still there and he wants to help.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @xhelasdottir.


End file.
